Category: Poetry


Thong

When I was a kid, everyone wore thongs in the summer: to the beach, to school, even to church sometimes. Mind you, thongs then looked like the picture to the left.

Over time words change in meaning. “We had a gay time on our cruise” had a different meaning in 1950 than it does today. Thong is one of those words. Today, thong means something completely different (no, I’m not putting in a picture) and people under a certain age have never heard the previous meaning. My husband still hasn’t adapted to the new use of thong, and often uses it to refer to flip-flops. This prompts looks of astonishment on the faces of my kids’ friends when he roams around the house looking for his footwear and calling out, “Has anyone seen my thongs?” Hilarious.

Rubberboat

I was an exchange student in Mexico when I was a teenager. One day the Spanish-speaking girls in my class pointed to a picture of an inflatable raft and asked me what the word for it was in English. “Rubberboat,” I said. They burst into laughter. “What?” they said. “Rubberboat,” I repeated. They fell apart all over again. “Say it again,” they said. “Say it again.” Every time I said ”rubberboat,” they could not contain their laughter.

Think about it. Say it out loud to yourself. You can see how it would sound ridiculous to someone unfamiliar with our language. Rubberboat. It’s funny.

Gobsmacked

I love this word. It’s so visual and carries such clear meaning. When someone uses this word, you can visualize the recoil reaction to shocking news. The gob of shocking news hurls through the air and, smack, hits the person. Recoil. Love that.

Lollipop

My daughter offered this one, and I agree. Lollipop is just fun to say. The ”lolli” loiters on the tongue in a rolling ell kind of way, and then you pop the last syllable. You could say lollipop, but why would you when you could say lolliPOP.

Pickle

I read somewhere that comedians use words with a “k” sound, because they are funnier than other words. The word pickle makes me laugh, and maybe the “k” has something to do with it. The pop of the “p” followed by the “k” just sounds funny. Also, when someone is “in a pickle” it usually means a person has put themselves in an awkward situation because of a poor choice. Usually we (a) have made the same mistake ourselves, or (b) we imagine we would make the same mistake under similar circumstances, so we empathize.  ”Oh, that person is in a pickle,” we say, shaking our heads.  We chuckle.

Ruffle

I wonder who the first person was to use the word “ruffle.” What prompted the word, and did he/she immediately realize it was the perfect word? It so aptly suits what it describes. Again, it’s visual. You see the flounciness of whatever it describes. It’s auditory, too. When feathers ruffle, you hear the disturbance.

This word sticks with me, too, because of Margaret Laurence. In her great book, The Stone Angel, she describes a character named Arlene as being ”all ruffles.” Arlene is not a common name, so when I come across a character with it, I take it rather personally. Arlene, all ruffles? I’ll tell you, my feathers ruffled over that.

Those are my fun words. What are yours?

My friend, Dennis Manning, and I had a conversation on Monday evening about how to tell the Easter story to children. It is tempting to leap right over the hard stuff and land directly on hallelujahs, the Easter Bunny and chocolate eggs. How do you tell kids that Jesus died?

But the hallelujahs without the hard stuff is only half the story.

The Easter story touches so many people so deeply because it inspires us to wait for glory after grief. In our darkest hour it gives us hope that we will overcome our shadows. We have to find a way to tell kids that the good guy finished last, and that out of harm we are growing new good. 

Our conversation put me in mind of one of Dennis’s poems: “Why the North Wind Blows.” His beautiful poem reminds me that, when the North Wind blows it doesn’t mean harm; it is just being true to its nature. When a tree—beautiful and perfect and majestic—falls under the force of the wind, it remains beautiful and perfect and majestic but in an adventurous new way.

If you celebrate Easter this year, or if there is a North Wind blowing over trees in your life, wait for signs of the good growing out of the harm.

Why the North Wind Blows

© 2012 Dennis Manning

I once saw a tree blown over by a strong North
Wind.

But amazingly it did not stop . . .

On its side, some of the branches became roots,
and some of the roots became branches.

Each taking strange,
New,
and beautiful paths . . .

Still growing.

Double rooted, double branched,
the tree grew like no other.
Twice as grounded.
Twice as adventurous.

In the position the tree grew,
with branch-roots here
and root-branches there.
Expansion and exploration everywhere.
It was a much easier tree for anyone to climb and
play in . . .

And so they did.

As the wind-blown tree realized it was a playground
for children of all ages,
it filled with pride,
Joy,
and an inner beauty that had no choice but to
expose itself to the world.

As such, all its branches,
Roots,
branch-roots and root-branches,
soared and bloomed above and below the other
trees of the forest.

And so to this day,
with excitement,
Fear,
uncertainty and joy,
all the trees of the forest await the North Wind,
and all the power,
Beauty,
and creative potential that it brings.

© 2012 Dennis Manning

My Poppy Laden

11:11 11/11/11

A poem for the tear that trickled down Sydney Smith’s face when he remembered his best friend, Archie Geddes, killed in WWII; for Uncle Jack Smith who brought home a British war bride; for Uncle Bruce Doyle who served with the Canadian navy in the North Atlantic; for my brother, Graham Peever, a veteran of the Persian Gulf War; and for all those who know the hurt and hope of war.

Those are the people I know, but Remembrance Day is about more than I know. It is about every man or woman who served, every loss, and every lesson learned. I cannot know every soldier, every conflict or every horror, but my poppy does; it represents all of it. The tiny red flower is heavy with the weight of all it knows. I wear it in hopes that it won’t have to get any heavier.

My Poppy Laden

© 2011 Arlene Somerton Smith

Tho’ whisper-light, the flower over my heart weighs heavy,
laden with its symbolism.

My poppy laden with shell blasts and shivering bodies,
mouldy boots in sucking mud,
wars created by a greedy, power-hungry, vengeful few and
fought by the brave, patriotic, rights-driven many.

Tho’ gently plush, the flower over my heart bears unyielding,
memories of the damage.

My poppy laden with sunlit shrapnel and whistling bombs,
tanks that became iron coffins,
friendships forged and lost in foxholes and
relentless terror masked as jocular camaraderie.

Tho’ blood red, the flower over my heart represents a wartime palette,
colours of pitted landscape.

My poppy laden with yellow-brown mustard gas and tan Afghan dust,
gun-metal skies over rows of white crosses,
bloodied soldiers who shot because they believed it to be right and
ashen soldiers who didn’t shoot for the same reason.

Lightly, softly, colourfully, the flower over my heart carries forward,
prayers of hope.

My poppy laden with solemn ceremonies and whispered prayers,
moments of silence in the dying tones of “The Last Post”,
seeds churned up in turmoil to become symbols of hope and rebirth and
a new day cherished in the bugle call of “Reveille”.

My daughter is a fan of StumbleUpon. She has her favourite topics, and she uses the site to help her “stumble upon” information of interest. She recently forwarded this poem to me after she encountered it through that site.

She knows what a sap I am.

Here is a poem of thankfulness by Nancie J. Carmody

I am thankful for . . .

the mess to clean up after a party
because it means I have been surrounded by friends.
the taxes I pay
because it means that I’m employed.
the clothes that fit a little too snug
because it means I have enough to eat.
my shadow who watches me work
because it means I am out in the sunshine.
the spot I find at the far end of the parking lot
because it means I am capable of walking.
all the complaining I hear about our government
because it means we have freedom of speech.
that lady behind me in church who sings off key
because it means that I can hear.
lawn that needs mowing, windows that need cleaning and gutters that need fixing
because it means I have a home.
my huge heating bill
because it means that I am warm.
weariness and aching muscles at the end of the day
because it means that I have been productive.
the alarm that goes off in the early morning hours
because it means that I am alive.
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